Chapter 20
Lana
I felt good the next morning, and I had to thank my responsible side for that.
I only remembered one night of extreme alcohol consumption where I felt sick even three days after, but last night, I had stopped when I knew it had been enough.
Holland, on the other hand, was severely hungover.
We sat in the back row of the lecture hall, where Professor Hayes talked to us about yet another black and white movie nobody had ever heard of, and I tried to focus as much as I could.
Holland’s groaning was distracting though.
She was sitting low in her chair, with dark circles under her eyes, and her hair knotted into a messy bun at the top of her head. I pursed my lips and leaned closer. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror this morning?”
“No, and I don’t want to for another week because I know I’m a mess.”
“You look like death,” I teased, sliding a bottle of water toward her.
“I feel like it,” she whispered back. “My organs hurt.”
“That’s because you’re dehydrated.”
She lifted her head and frowned. “I don’t need judgment right now, doctor.”
I laughed softly and rolled my eyes. “Not judging you. Just trying to help. Drink the water.”
She sighed dramatically but obeyed, taking a long sip before grimacing at something Hayes said. “He’s speaking too loudly.”
I jotted down a few notes for myself and her while keeping an eye on her as she kept complaining. After a few minutes, I opened my lunch container and nudged it toward her. “Eat something before you pass out, Holls.”
She blinked at it like I’d handed her a calculus problem. “What’s that?”
“Chicken and rice,” I said proudly.
“I don’t think I can eat right now.”
“You should if you want to feel better.”
She leaned back in her chair, clutching her stomach. You’re the worst ever, you know that? I’m dying here, and you want to stuff me with chicken.”
I didn’t take her words as an attack because I knew she didn’t mean them that way. But I wasn’t going to force her to eat if she truly didn’t feel like it. “The offer stands,” I said, nudging the food closer to her.
“I dreamed about chicken last night,” she suddenly informed me. “And about you. And your hot porn star stepdaddy.”
That made me freeze. “What?”
“Yeah.” She squinted at me, expression still hazy from exhaustion. “You were on a movie set, and he was telling you to fluff him up.”
As funny as her little dream sounded, knowing it wasn’t just a silly little dream made me nervous. I tried to focus on the chicken part of her dream. “And how does the chicken fit into all of that?”
She shrugged. “No idea. I think it was just there. Like, background chicken.”
I just gave a nod, hoping she would start complaining about Hayes again, but she continued talking about the dream. “It was the weirdest, yet hottest dream I ever had. I woke up confused and slightly concerned for your innocence.”
I pressed my lips together and looked down at my notes, pretending to focus on the page. “Not that innocent anymore.” It slipped out of me without a warning.
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
I hesitated, closing my eyes before looking at her. I kept my voice low to ensure no one else would hear me. “I told him I want to be his fluffer.”
Her eyes widened, all traces of her hangover magically gone. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Actually? What did he say? Oh my god, Lana, what did he say?”
“Keep it down,” I hissed.
“Lackie, Marsh!” Hayes called out our last names from his desk at the front, and we both looked at him. I braced myself, ready to be scolded for talking during class. Holland, on the other hand, looked annoyed that we got interrupted.
“I’d appreciate it if you two would lower your voices. I know not everything I talk about down here is interesting but at least don’t interrupt my class.”
“Sorry, professor,” I replied instantly. “It won’t happen again.”
Hayes gave me a nod, then raised a brow at Holland, expecting her to apologize too. I nudged her side, and she sighed.
“I’m also sorry.”
Hayes didn’t look mad. He wasn’t the type of teacher who held a grudge or punished his students. No, he even looked amused. “Drinking water helps a hangover,” he said with a wink in Holland’s direction.
“How’d you know I have a hangover?” Holland asked, her eyes widening. “Gosh, professor, you truly are a fascinating man. So smart and handsome. If I ever marry someone one day, I want them to be just like you.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and Hayes shook his head, smiling. “Thank you, Holland. Now, back to what I was saying…”
The second Hayes continued his lesson, and every other student listened, Holland immediately turned to me, her eyes wide and her jaw dropped. “Lana,” she whispered harshly. “You’re serious? About telling Callan that you want to be his fluffer?”
I nodded, nervously biting the inside of my cheek. “Yeah.”
She leaned in even closer, eyes sparkling with disbelief. “You mean to tell me that you, my quiet, rule-following best friend, took my advice and are now professionally making a porn star hard for work?”
Admitting it was harder than I wanted it to be. But I had now told her, and I couldn’t take it back and say it was a joke. “Pretty much.”
Holland covered her mouth, trying to muffle a laugh. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard, ever. You should’ve told me earlier.”
“I wasn’t exactly sure how to bring it up.”
“Now you did. And I have so many questions.” She glanced toward the front of the room where Hayes was still talking, then back at me. “I want every detail.”
“Not here,” I told her, meeting her eyes for a split second.
“You’re killing the momentum of the most shocking revelation of my week,” she murmured, then added, “Fine. Lunch, then.”
We ate lunch outside. Despite her hangover, Holland looked more alert than ever.
She fired question after question, and I answered them all.
I didn’t hold back. I told her what happened, how it felt, and how the whole thing had shifted something in me.
I even admitted that I liked the control it gave me.
Holland stared at me like she couldn’t believe I had finally done something bold. Then she grinned, wide and proud, and told me to keep going and stop feeling weird about it.
Talking to her made things clearer. It made everything feel less heavy. Knowing she didn’t judge me for becoming a fluffer loosened the tightness I had been feeling in my chest.
After lunch and one more class, I headed home.
Callan hadn’t told me when he planned to start filming, and I hoped I wasn’t late.
But when I walked in, he was still adjusting the cameras.
I walked up to the doorway and paused. He was focused, and the frown between his brows told me he was unhappy about something. I cleared my throat so he’d notice me.
Callan turned. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I tried for a small smile. “When are you starting?”
He let out a frustrated breath and lifted his hands in a short, annoyed gesture. “Whenever the girls decide to show up. I told them no later than four.”
I nodded and watched him shift another camera an inch to the left. He glanced back at me. “You had some questions.”
“Oh…yeah.” I dug into my tote bag, patting around for the notebook. “Shit. I have them upstairs.”
“Go get them.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t wait for him to repeat himself. I went upstairs, grabbed the notebook from my desk, and hurried back down. When I stepped into the filming room again, he was pushing a light closer to the bed. He turned when he heard me, giving me his attention with an expectant look.
“Shoot.”
I flipped open the notebook and turned to the pages where I had written down the questions. “I wanted to ask about the cameras first. Trey mentioned that you like to shoot from multiple angles, and sometimes even change them for the same scene. Why is that?”
He watched me more closely now. “You get different information from every angle. One camera gives you the action, another gives you the expression, and another shows the rhythm. If I only shoot from one spot, I lose half the story.”
I wrote that down in short sentences. “But why change them mid-scene? Doesn’t that take away from filming time?”
“It does, but I’d rather adjust than keep a dead shot. People shift. Bodies move. A good angle can turn useless in thirty seconds when you have the actors move differently than you intended.”
I nodded slowly before looking up from the notes again. “So you’re basically saying that you want your movies to seem real rather than staged.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And,” I continued, “I’m trying to understand how your directing style fits within the industry. You’re more hands-on than most. You control the lighting, the camera placement, and you’re in most of the scenes yourself. Do you think that’s what sets you apart and makes your work so successful?”
His posture eased a little, and his mouth twitched into an amused smile.
“I think my work is so successful because I love what I do, and people can see that. I know exactly what I want. Most directors rely on a crew because they don’t have a clear picture in their head.
I do. So it’s faster to move the lights myself than explain it three times. ”
I wrote that down, but he wasn’t done.
“And beyond all that, I pay attention to things most male performers ignore,” he said. “They think about themselves and their ego. I pay attention to the women I’m working with. That alone changes the entire dynamic. Viewers see when actors are being authentic.”
I studied him for a while after noting what he said. I understood what he meant. It sounded bold, but it wasn’t arrogance. He knew his talent and his influence, and he still didn’t use it to diminish others.
I smiled gently, then asked, “Do you ever improvise? Or is everything locked into your plan?”
“Improvisation is fine,” he said, “as long as it doesn’t break the tone. If a moment feels natural, I let them run with it. But I’ll step in if it goes flat.”
I held my pen still for a second. “And how do you know when it’s flat?”
His eyes flashed with something sharp. “You feel it. We’re all just people, and energies can shift in the middle of a shoot.”
“I understand.” I flipped the page to the next question. “Right. Okay. Last one.”
“Go on.”
I tapped the end of my pen against the paper. “It’s about editing. How much do you do yourself, and how much do you hand off?”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I handle the first cut. Always. I go through every angle and build the structure myself the way I intended while writing the script. After that, my editor refines it. He cleans the transitions, balances sound and tightens anything that drags.”
I wrote that down. “So you’re involved in every stage, even after filming.”
His gaze held mine. “From start to finish.”
“All the work you do deserves a documentary on its own,” I said with a short laugh. “My professors would be fascinated with how much you do and how well you do it.”
A hint of amusement pulled at his mouth. “They’d think I’m a control freak.”
“You are,” I said, smiling. “But in a productive way.”
I closed my notebook and looked up at him again. “Thank you. This helped a lot. I didn’t expect to learn this much about the technical side, but it gave me a clearer look at how different directors work.”
“Good. You should see more than the surface if you want to become a great director. Most people never do.”
I opened my mouth to clarify that my goal wasn’t directing, that I wanted to write stories instead, but the chance slipped away.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, then Trey appeared first, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.
Rocco trailed behind him, stretching his arms above his head with a loud yawn.
Trey lifted a hand toward us. “Hey. We’re here.”
Rocco’s grin landed on me next. “We got company again?”
I returned a polite smile and nodded. “Hey.”
The shift in Callan was immediate. His voice sharpened as he looked at them. “You’re late.”
Trey grimaced and dropped his bag on the floor. “Sorry. I couldn’t find the batteries for the second mic.”
“I was sleeping,” Rocco said, shrugging like it was a perfectly acceptable excuse.
Callan’s jaw tightened. “I want this movie done next week. That only happens if everyone shows up when I say. The girls are late too. I’ll remind them not to do it again or they’re off the list.”
I leaned forward slightly, unable to stop my curiosity. “What list?”
Rocco shot me a quick glance, amused. “The list of girls he keeps around. The ones he brings back for most of his movies. Kind of like his rotation of favorites.”
“I choose who makes my job easier,” Callan added, already turning back to the equipment. “If they waste my time, they’re gone.”
Trey nodded in agreement. “Fair enough.”
I tucked that information away, the reality of how he worked becoming clearer with every hour I spent here. It wasn’t just skill that kept people close to him. It was consistency, reliability, professionalism. Things he demanded from everyone. Things he demanded from himself even more.